Take On We
by visceralfringe
Summary: Peter Parker is twenty and a college sophomore. With his sights on a Thanos-free future, he's just distracted enough to miss the Stucky signs until the evidence is in his face. OR, Bucky drives, Peter gripes about it, and Steve gives everyone Hello Kitty bandaids until they can successfully navigate a three way relationship.
1. Part 1

**Chapter One**

Moving in with Barnes and Rogers had its perks.

Their three-bedroom condo in Brooklyn was an easy bike ride from campus. Peter never asked how they afforded it, but he knew that both men had jobs in construction on top of typical hero work. They only charged him a hundred bucks a month rent, provided he kept the apartment clean and the kitchen stocked. He could easily afford that with his side hustle of selling pictures of Spider-Man to the local paper.

Barnes had an old pick-up, so Peter didn't need to worry about renting a moving van to cart his crud over.

At twenty years old, Peter was finally out from under Aunt May's microscope. She had been unbearable after discovering his super identity and over the moon about him moving in with "professionals" who could "keep an eye on him". Peter didn't have to worry about snoopy roommates discovering his suit or prying into his personal life. To Barnes and Rogers, him being Spider-Man was common knowledge. Just like Peter knew about Rogers being former Captain America, newly Nomad, and Barnes being the Winter Soldier.

Thanks to Stark's recommendation, Peter had his pick of colleges in New York. After selecting Brooklyn College, Peter chose to go into his major as Undecided. Get his prerequisites out of the way. Get to know his professors. Get a network going. He was gunning for something in science or mathematics. Problem was he couldn't choose between chemistry and physics. It was like designating a favorite child. Maybe he'd dabble in quantum mechanics one day. Give Stark and Pym a run for their money.

Thanos had been defeated by some miracle Stark still wouldn't explain. But they all knew it had to do with the Time Stone. The majority of the world did not even remember the attack. It had put Peter behind on his career path though. He had never expected to be just entering his sophomore year of college so dangerously close to twenty-one. Late. So late. Peter's classes at BC crammed in throughout the week saw him out of the apartment for at least three hours every day with another three hours of homework and reading when he got back. Things were quiet on the cosmic criminal front.

Living with "Mr. Barnes" and "Mr. Rogers", who had to remind Peter for two months straight that they were all on a first name basis, was so easy. So bizarrely normal. Aside from the occasional visit from a couple feds in suits to grill Bucky about his psychological profile and check up on Steve's agenda, everything went as one might expect.

Jokes and keys being tossed back and forth. Gym bags and jogging shoes left by the front door. Trips down to the laundry mat with bulging hampers. Turns at the sink for dish duty. A movie every other night—always on TV because the theater's prices were so grossly inflated. Steve liked Lifetime movies; the sappy ones with strong messages and no nudity. Bucky always rolled his eyes and teased him for it, but surrendered when Steve leveled him with a look that Peter could only describe as glacial. Some nights, they'd watch one or two episodes of some crime show. Bucky loved those. He usually solved the case before Peter or Steve had a clue about the perp. Then he gloated about it for a couple hours. Mornings always came with news and coffee. After his run, Steve insisted on reading the paper in print instead of online. Bucky made eggs. On Friday nights, Bucky played pool shark and dart master at the dive bar down the street. On Saturday, they ordered in and played cards. Solitaire, Hold-um, Golf, War. Bucky and Steve spent too much time arguing over the rules of Gin Rummy for the game to go smoothly. Usually, they let Peter pick the take-out place as a way of apologizing for being so competitive. On Sundays, Steve dragged Bucky and Peter to church.

Bucky smoked at least twice at the day's end, so he'd be on the balcony like clockwork. Sometimes, Peter and Steve would join him and they'd be out with beers or cocktails until after sunset, swapping stories from construction sites and school and taking digs at one another. Bucky went on a date every now and then. Steve kept to himself for the most part. And, unlike Bucky, Steve didn't give Peter a hard time about the lack of ladies in his life, or his aversion to parties on Greek Row.

There was talk of getting a pet for the house because they "needed a mascot". Bucky wanted a cat. Steve wanted a dog. Peter liked both. They never made much headway on the decision.

Sometimes Steve and Buck shared a room for the night when Bucky took a turn for the worst. Steve had explained to Peter early on about Bucky's nightmares, occasional relapses, and his tendency to sleep-walk when he felt unstable. Bunking together was the easiest way to watch over him and safeguard him from himself. Peter kept his bedroom door locked at night until three months passed without incident.

And another great thing? Steve and Bucky knew Peter could handle himself. They gave him freedom. Asked minimal questions. Kept conversation light and casual. Never haggled him about a curfew or coming home late or leaving early. Or sleeping in, for that matter.

They even took a day trip once a month. Fishing at the Pier. Coney Island. Central Park.

It was the closest to normal independence that Peter could have envisioned for himself.

Five months after moving in, Peter hauled his grocery bags up the stairs and fumbled with his keys at the door. Once inside, he shouldered the door shut and hoofed it into the kitchen. The living room lamp was on.

"Guys?" he called, letting the bags down on the counter. No answer. He checked the time: half past five. Peter started unloading the first bag and glanced out at the balcony. The curtains were open just enough to reveal two beers on their little patio table, sorely in need of a scrub down. Bucky looked out over the city with a cigarette between his fingers and a hand in his pocket. Steve stood beside him, leaning back with his elbows on the railing. Peter couldn't hear what they were saying with the door shut and the cacophony of nightlife rising outside. Bucky ashed his smoke. Steve smiled and glanced at his shoes. Bucky shifted his weight and took his hand out of his pocket before he reached across Steve and closed his hand on the railing. Steve met his eyes, but he didn't move. Bucky leaned in.

Peter dropped the plastic jar of Jiffy. He blinked. Blinked harder. The scene didn't change.

They were . . . kissing.

Kissing!

"Holy shit," he whispered, gawking. Peter whirled around. His stomach spun. His mouth worked with no sound, confusion and heat filling his head to bursting. He scrambled out of the kitchen, out of sight of the balcony. Peter opened the apartment door and slammed it. Hard. Then he caught a picture that fell off its nail and frantically righted it.

"Guys!" he hollered. "I'm home!" He cringed.

God. How did he unsee that? Peter knew without a doubt that he wasn't supposed to see that at all! He couldn't have been. Were they . . . ? No way. No. Bucky went on dates. Steve took communion.

It must have been a mistake. Bucky was probably teasing him about something. Yeah. It was a misunderstanding. Peter had been studying too hard. Maybe his blood sugar was low.

Thoughts in tangles, Peter darted back into the kitchen.

The glass door sighed open. Steve—all sunlight and clear skies in comparison to Bucky's starlit darkness—stepped through the curtains and smiled.

"Hey, kiddo. You need any help with those?"

 **Chapter Two**

The following Friday evening, just before they were destined for the dive bar, Peter sat in an arm chair in the den. Peter hadn't been able to sleep more than an hour last night and had shuffled out the door bleary eyed to make it to his AM class. He had distracted himself with coursework for the rest of the day and a merciful, though brief, nap when he dozed off during his reading. When he woke up, everything came flooding back to him with startling clarity. He had been alone in his room as he weighed the facts with what he suspected.

But now, they were together.

In the den.

And Peter could still see that sliver of balcony through the curtains.

Steve, fishing through television channels, sat catty-corner to Peter on the two-seater sofa while Bucky riffled through the fridge for a lager.

"You boys want anything?" Bucky called.

"No thanks," Peter said quickly.

Steve smiled. "I'll take a Coke if we got one."

Bucky grunted. "Just Pepsi."

Steve playfully shot Peter a sidelong smirk. "Traitor."

Peter flushed, looked away, and bumbled through a laugh as he feigned interest in his phone.

"That works," Steve answered over his shoulder.

Bucky came around the counter and tossed Steve a cool blue can. Steve caught it with a grin and popped the tab. The Pepsi hissed. Peter, senses so heightened, could smell the syrup and spiced sugar from where he sat.

Peter jumped when Bucky squeezed his shoulder and mussed his hair on the way by.

"You're awful quiet tonight, kid." His mech hand held a Guinness.

Scrambling for an excuse, Peter said, "Just stressed, I guess. Midterms."

"You need some fun in your life." Bucky plopped down beside Steve, twisted off the beer cap, and tossed it into the little trash bin at the base of the lamp. He swigged. Bucky put his heel on the coffee table. "Any plans for the weekend?"

"Naw." Peter smiled, trying to keep his countenance calm. Nonchalant.

"It's pretty close to Homecoming. And elections. I'm sure there'll be some real ragers off campus." Bucky toasted him with a smirk.

"Oh. Yeah." Come to think of it, the girl who needed his notes from Monday had invited Peter to a sorority party this morning.

"You should check it out. Get a few numbers." Bucky wagged his brows and took another swig.

Steve gave Bucky a weary look. "James. He hates parties. And that's OK. Not everyone enjoys that sort of crowd."

James. Steve only called Bucky by his real name when things got serious, which was rare.

"I know. But I want the guy to branch out. I feel like he's missing a lot. This weekend. Because tomorrow is Saturday. Saturday, October 16th. And Saturday is always party night." Bucky's voice was tight. Punctuated. Nothing like the lazily arrogant drawl he normally used.

Peter glanced up and caught Bucky staring at Steve, his wide eyes stony. Their legs were touching. Oh, god. How had Peter never noticed that?! Had they always touched when they sat together? When they watched TV together? When they played cards?

No. It was a small couch. It was just a small couch and they were abnormally large guys. Just two guys.

Steve sighed. Peter could have sworn a conceding smile shown in his eyes.

"Maybe he's right, Peter. Parties are good places to meet people." Steve smiled encouragingly. "And if you happen to make a friend, you can do all sorts of other things. You don't have to party with them every weekend."

There was no way Peter could weather a Saturday night alone with Steve and Bucky so soon after seeing them on the balcony. He'd totally crack. Maybe a party was exactly what he needed to forget about it.

"Yeah. I know. OK. I'll give it a try."

Late the next night, Peter stumbled into the apartment. Cigarette smoke and Ko Palace filled his nostrils. The world spun. He braced against the wall and frowned at the picture that he vaguely remembered hanging up earlier this week. Why had he hung it so crooked? Peter fixed it. Gave it a sage nod.

He stood up, struggling to get his eyes to blink evenly.

"Listen," he said, pointing a finger at the lamp. "Only God can judge." He swayed. "Room, you are not sill. /Still/. Sit still." Nausea churned in his gut. Peter groaned and trudged toward the nearest bathroom. The light was on—thank space Jesus. Peter would never have remembered where it was.

He opened the door.

Near the toilet, Steve surged to his feet and quickly wiped his mouth. Bucky was standing. He had his back to Peter, fiddling with something by the shower curtain. Steve cleared his throat. Neither of them wore a shirt.

"Oh no. You're sick too?" Peter hiccupped. He was glad he missed take-out night.

"Y—yeah," Steve stammered glancing between Peter and Bucky. "Bad Chinese."

"Jesus Christ, I'm going to kill this kid," Bucky whispered sharply. He still had his back to Peter.

"m'sorry," Peter slurred. "I lost to King Chad, Lord of Lady Bits in beer pong. Didn't wanna be too good'n'draw 'tention. He said I had to drink his side of the table, too. Because I am so bad at it."

"I'm going to kill this kid," Bucky hissed again, tilting his head toward heaven.

Steve came forward with his hand out. The concern in his eyes made Peter feel much safer.

"Oh, Pete. That's rough. Are you OK?"

"Do you know what Jager is, Mr. Steve? It means monster, but there's a deer on the bottle. Like Bambi's dad. Don't let it fool you." He grabbed at the door handle to keep from tumbling over. Instead, Steve caught him. Peter leaned against his impossibly solid body.

"Buck. Would you go get me a bottle of water and a clean shirt?"

"Fuck no," Bucky growled.

"James." Steve's voice was edged with ice. "He went to the party. He took your advice. If you want a happy ending tonight, you best get me a god damn bottle of water and a clean shirt /now/."

Peter had never heard Steve curse before. He snorted out a laugh.

Growling and grumbling, Bucky shouldered past them and stalked off down the hall.

"Come here. That's it. Right over here." Steve took Peter's wrist and walked him over to the toilet. He helped him kneel on the shower rug.

Peter slumped over, his arms folded on the seat.

"I'm fffine," he slurred, rallying his expression to be convincing. "I don't need to—" His whole body lurched as he hurled his guts up into the toilet.

Steve sat down on the edge of the bathtub and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. He squeezed.

"It's OK, buddy. Get it out. We've all been here. Me included."

Peter heard Bucky come and go from the bathroom, exchanging hushed, harsh words with Steve before he stormed out again.

"m'sorry," Peter repeated. He groaned.

"It's OK, Pete. I promise. Focus on breathing." He opened a bottle of water. "You need to drink this. As much as you can."

Peter took the bottle and took a few gulps. He hiccupped. Steve rubbed his back.

"Did you have an OK time at least?"

Peter mumbled through bursts of memory, telling Steve about the jam packed party house and the girl who wanted him to play a card game with her and her friends. But it wasn't like their card games. It was called Suck and Blow. Peter handed the water bottle back to Steve before another round of vomiting. The Jager stung his throat so bad that tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

Peter wiped his mouth and sniffed.

"I saw you guys."

"What's that, Pete?"

Peter rolled his head in Steve's direction and stared intensely.

"Kissing? You'n Bucky. By the beers. I saw you guys like…" Peter pressed his fingers together, like ducks or dinosaur heads, and touched his fingertips together repeatedly. "Like that."

Steve went still and turned so pale, he may as well have been a bed sheet. Peter snickered.

"We should get cleaned up and into bed, kiddo," Steve said softly before he flushed the toilet.

Peter frowned, watching the foul water swirl out of sight. "But I was talking about something. Now I can't remember what it was."

"You need to sleep."

Steve helped Peter change his sick splashed shirt into a much bigger one than Peter usually wore. It smelled like good detergent.

"We'll talk in the morning."

Peter nodded, his eyelids heavy. "mm-kay."

 **Chapter Three**

Even the dimmest ray of sunlight sliced through his head like a dagger. Peter groaned. Turning his head to check the time, he noticed a glass of transparent fluid on his bedside table with a little notecard beside it.

'Drink me,' it read.

He could see a film around the top, the liquid a dull pink-orange color with bubbles every now and then. It was an effort to reach for it and a greater one to sit up. Peter took the glass in gulps, the water cooling his thirst and the sharp citrus taste confirming it had been spiked with vitamin C and electrolyte tablets. Thank God.

It was an hour short of noon. Bucky and Steve would be out of church by now.

As his eyes adjusted to the mid-morning light, he raked his memory about the night before. He remembered the cab ride. The party. Bits of the cab ride back to the apartment. He remembered seeing the stairs leading to their floor. But that's where his memory stopped. He must have stumbled in here and . . .

Peter checked for his wallet. His keys. His phone. All there on his bureau. Why did he feel like he was forgetting something important? And why could he still smell the Jager in his nose? Peter stood with a wave of nausea and stumbled into his cubicle of a bathroom. He flicked on the light, caught his reflection in the mirror, and froze.

He was wearing a Dodgers shirt. /Steve's/ Dodgers shirt.

Missing bits of last night came hurtling back as wordless images. Crooked picture. Ko Palace. Light under the door. Steve and Bucky in the bathroom. Harsh words and hushed whispers. A water bottle. And Peter heaving half a gallon of God knew what into their bathroom toilet.

Peter's face sizzled with embarrassment.

"Oh no," he groaned. He had to seriously thank and apologize to them ASAP.

He tore himself away from the mirror and showered off his shame. He'd get Steve's shirt dry cleaned this week.

After scrubbing his mouth squeaky with a toothbrush, Peter dressed, toweled off his hair, and headed for the kitchen. The strong scent of coffee washed over him. Maybe he'd make the guys lunch. Have it ready when they got home. Halfway down the hall, Peter heard a low conversation coming from the dinner table. He stopped short of the corner.

"Why are you being so glib about this? He deserves to know."

So Steve and Bucky hadn't gone to service after all.

"If we wanted him to know, we would have told him when we moved in."

"You said he saw us kissin'."

"That's what he told me."

Shit. Shit! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Peter must have spilled the beans when he was plastered. Damn him.

He heard the clinking of porcelain mugs on glass.

"Was he upset?"

"I couldn't tell."

"Steve. It's New York. He's in college. I'm sure he sees dudes sucking face all the time."

"That's not why I'm worried, Buck. And you know it. We've worked together for four years. He trusts us. You lied to him. About the dates. I told you not to do that."

"What was I supposed to say?"

"The truth."

"That I see a shrink? Fuck no. Crazy people see shrinks. People who belong in the loony bin see shrinks."

"He's a teammate. And a friend. Mental health isn't like it was in our day, baby. People see therapists all the—"

"I don't fuckin' care. It's embarrassing."

"What are we gonna do?"

"We should never have kept it a secret to begin with. I say tell the kid."

"He would be the first of the team to know."

"Nastasha knows."

"James. Natasha has known since my dramatic reaction to seeing you again."

"Probably sooner. You did tell me about that kiss on the escalator."

"Let's agree to never bring that up again."

"Look. Steve. Letting Pete in on you and me makes it less awkward. And then I don't have to be clandestine about asking for sex anymore."

"You were never clandestine about it," Steve muttered wryly. A slurp. The clinking of porcelain on glass.

Bucky tsked. "Whether the guy knows it or not, he has watched our relationship exactly the way it has always been. Our romance isn't a god damn Lifetime movie, doll. We're not about to hold hands on the street or share some dumb little kiss in a café. He can handle it, Steve."

"Are you sure?" Steve's voice was quiet. Hollow. "What if . . . What if he can't? What if he can't accept us?"

While Bucky's aversion to therapy harkened back to the horrors of Skid Row, this fear must have been Steve's hang-up from the 1900s. Peter knew enough history to remember how same-sex love was treated back then.

"Then he's free to leave." The sound of a quick kiss. "I ain't givin' you up for anything."

"I care about him, Buck. Communicating this should have been easy. And a priority. What if by not telling him, we screwed up that friendship?"

How had Peter completely missed this? Missed them? How had he been so oblivious to something right in front of him? Peter would never have been surprised to find out Steve had a boyfriend. Stark had hinted at that theory for two years. But the unassailable fact that that boyfriend was Bucky . . . ?

That took getting used to.

It changed their entire dynamic. Didn't it?

Or did it?

Peter reflected on their routines. Evenings spent on the balcony. Day trips. Quality time.

He blinked, the tension unbraiding from between his shoulders.

/We're not about to hold hands on the street or share some dumb little kiss in a café./

No, he realized. It didn't change a damn thing.

Steve and Bucky had been a couple then, too. Every time they shared a laugh or a look or a sunset or a joke that Peter wasn't yet privy to. They hadn't taken lengths to hide it from him. It just came that naturally. Naturally enough that their love, the foundation they shared as friends, was probably more romantic than public displays of affection.

The confusion inside Peter ebbed.

"I do wish you would have told me," Peter said, announcing his presence as he rounded the corner. "Never know. I could have been developing a big ol' crush on you and not realized you were taken."

Steve went rigid, staring at Peter with his Caribbean big blues as Peter plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl. He tossed the apple and caught it when it came down. Peter took a bite. Bucky burst out laughing.

Peter smiled and swallowed. "Thanks, guys. For last night. I'm sorry."

Relief poured into Steve's face as his broad shoulders sagged. "No problem. Good to see you on your feet."

Bucky shook his finger and sat back. "Oh no. No. You're gonna be paying for interrupting that for a while, kid."

Peter frowned. "Interrupting what?"

Bucky smiled, turning on that lazy arrogance as easily as flipping the switch for the fan. "The Chinese was delicious last night, by the way. Saved some chow mien for you, if you're interested."

Peter frowned. Faced Steve. "But I thought you said . . . "

Steve, face half hidden by his coffee mug with his attention on the napkins, didn't say anything.

Peter did pay for it. Whatever /it/ was. He was on triple laundry duty for the next week and a half. And he did it gladly. It was the least he could do for what he had put them through.

However, their relationship must have been more stuck in his subconscious than he anticipated, because every other night, Peter had raunchy dreams that landed him in a cold shower the next morning. In most of them, he watched. Which was uncomfortably erotic. Peter had never explored voyeurism. Though, a good porn once in awhile did wonders for his endorphin levels. He rubbed one out once a day at least. But somehow, doing it with his friends in mind seemed wrong. Really wrong.

Thursday night's was the steamiest yet. Steve and Bucky sharing that impossibly small shower, Steve pressed into a tight corner, Bucky between his legs, Steve's hands in his hair. Bucky's hands . . . somewhere else. The two of them mouth to mouth and doing anything but getting clean.

Shit. Focus.

Rehashing that scene would induce a problem inappropriate for his AM class. Peter found himself at the volunteer bakery of the student union building afterward, paging through a copy of the textbook. Professor Sullivan's exam was Monday and he was known for dishing out doozies.

"Hey," said a feminine voice.

Peter looked up, startled. "Hey!"

"Parker, right? Peter." She wore a computer bag over one slim shoulder, high rimmed boots, and an over-the-shoulder top. The girl pushed her sunglasses up onto her head where her jet-black hair hung in a messy bun.

Peter blinked. Why did she seem . . . ?

"It's Molly. Molly Roark? From Political Science class. And the wild party a couple weeks ago."

"Oh my god! That's right. I'm sorry." He stuck his hand out and shook hers early. "How you been?"

"You seem a little distracted. Mind if I sit with you? I'm dying to eat this and the other tables are full."

"Not at all. Please." They sat down. Peter took a breath to brave another question, but she silenced him with a finger.

"Bagel first. Then chat."

Peter nodded.

She unwrapped her breakfast, a thick cheesy whole grain bun stuffed with turkey and lettuce and cream cheese, and took a huge bite. Molly moaned.

After a gulp of her coffee, "Fuck the rules. I love carbs."

"The rules?" Peter grinned.

"Sorority stuff," she reported with a pout. "We're not allowed to eat like this. And I'm fucking miserable."

Peter laughed. "Well, you look incredible. You should probably go get three more of those at least."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a sweetie. OK. I have a question."

"Yeah?" Peter picked up his coffee.

"Are you gay?"

Peter choked. "N—no," he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth.

Molly gave him a once-over. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've had three very serious girlfriends."

"So have I." She shrugged inconsequentially. She leaned forward with a quirky smirk. "You don't remember me kissing you, do you?"

Face burning, Peter guffawed. "No. No way. I would have remembered that!"

"mhm. You call yourself bi then?"

Dumbfounded, Peter blinked. "What?"

"Honey. I'm from West Hollywood. You were ten times more interested in playing beer pong with that frat prince than hanging out with me. And you took every punishment he dished at you like you were thirsty for more. I do not blame you. Give me some sriracha and sticky rice and I would eat that boy raw." With an angelic smile, she tucked into her bagel again.

"I'm not—"

Molly blinked, her eyebrows shooting halfway up her head. "Not what?"

"I've never . . . "

"Oh, you poor cinnamon roll." She sighed. "Looks like we're going to embark on this journey of self-discovery together. Sadly, I spent all my allowance on Lululemon and don't have enough to afford to plane tickets back home until Christmas. So, it looks like we'll have to work with what we're given here."

"Molly—"

She polished off her bagel, sucked two fingers clean, and crunched the package into a ball. Molly shot for the trash can and sunk it.

"No buts. Tomorrow is Halloween. Tonight, I'm taking you to The Library."

Peter frowned. "The Library? For books on bisexuality?"

Molly laughed.

* * *

From here, it will get explicit. ;]

For more, please visit Archive of Our Own at: /works/15525309/chapters/36039054

Love,

HMNG


	2. Part 2

**{Hey, all! Find us on AO3! HarperMoonandNickGrunge}**

 **Chapter Four**

"Bad dream?"

Peter jumped from his place by the balcony railing. The crisp night air raised goosebumps on his flesh. Or was it something else?

"Yeah. Somethin' like that." How long had he been standing out here? It had to be only a couple hours until dawn.

"huh," Bucky Barnes said, emerging through the sliding glass door and that split in the curtains. The porch light was low enough not to disturb the neighbors, but it still threw shadows across the soldier's face.

"I get those sometimes. Usually don't wind up out here though. Specially not in late October."

Peter turned away to hide the heat in his cheeks. The Library hadn't been a library at all, but a sexually fluid strip club. Molly had managed to get him tipsy enough not to ask questions during the pregame party at her place. He had been bamboozled when he walked in. But, to his shame, he couldn't look away.

"Needed fresh air," Peter mumbled. He curled his hands tighter together.

Bucky scoffed through his nose. With a voice like warm suede and dark chocolate, "Then you better get out of New York, kid."

"Very funny." Peter dug his nails into his knuckles.

"heh."

Peter couldn't deny the truth anymore: women /and/ men got him going. He had simply kept himself from looking, from wanting, from considering until he saw Steve and Bucky kissing a couple weeks ago.

Buck was silent as he came up beside Peter to bend over and brace his elbows on the icy railing.

"Heard you."

Peter froze. "What did you hear?"

"I think you know, Parker. We've heard you for a couple nights now. Moanin'. Sayin' our names in your sleep. Steve's nicer than I am. Doesn't bring it up. He's a sweet thing. But you know that, too. Don't you, kid?"

Bucky turned around with that swagger that made Peter's spine go limp as a noodle and leaned back against the railing. He fixed Peter in an icy stare.

"That's what you want."

Peter felt Bucky's tortoise green eyes crawl from his toes to his temples.

"A sweet thing."

Panic lanced through Peter. "What are you—?" Suddenly, Bucky was closer. Close enough that Peter could smell his last cigarette. Tall enough to shade him, Peter plunged into the full darkness of the night and the true terror of the Winter Soldier's presence.

"You like him. Like the way he takes care of you. You like the way he protects you."

"I . . . " Peter stammered.

"You want him. Don't ya?" Bucky's breath was strangely warm against his ear.

Seized with nausea, Peter tried to scrub his brain clean of the times he had pictured Steve's face on the male strippers tonight, as though Bucky could look into his head and read his thoughts like a doctor looking at bones through an x-ray machine.

"No. Mr. Barnes, God no!"

"sh. He's asleep," Bucky warned lowly. "And it's Bucky. Dammit, kid, you know that by now."

Peter shook his head solemnly. "You're together. I would never." Impossibly close now, Peter tensed at the softness of Bucky's wool sweater.

"Shut up for a fuckin' second and listen to me. Steve cares about you. A lot. In the last month, he's said a couple things that have made me wonder."

Peter trembled. "Wonder what?"

Bucky's breath warmed the shell of Peter's ear again. "How bad he wants to put his cock in you."

Peter felt Bucky's lips ease into a grin. To some, it may have been a smile. To Peter, it felt like the waiting jaws of a panther.

"I'm a jealous guy, Pete. But I share when it suits me," his broad body shrugged, "so long as things go my way."

"Your way?"

Bucky stared hard. "That a fuckin' problem?"

"No. No, sir."

"Good." Bucky sighed and turned his attention on the sprinkling of stars visible through the smog. "Tomorrow night is Samhain. Steve's ma celebrated it. So we do, too—in place of Halloween."

"Samhain," Peter repeated.

"Celtic holiday. You know." He gave a short, breathy laugh. "Steve's Irish and all, if you couldn't tell by the way he wears his blood vessels so close to the surface."

An image of Steve blushing bolted through Peter's thoughts. The way he smiled and stared at his shoes. The kindness in his eyes when he asked Peter how his day went. If he needed anything.

"S—sounds interesting."

"You wanna come?"

The way Bucky emphasized that last word sent Peter's head spinning. "I—"

"To the party, I mean. Our little party."

Peter swallowed hard. Maybe this was an olive branch? A peace offering? Steve was a friend. A mentor. So was Bucky. That was all. These musings would pass. They had to.

"S—sure."

Bucky chuckled. "I'll fix you up with somethin' good, Peter. Get you in real close with him. So long as you're ready to . . . do something good for me when I ask."

Peter wanted to run. He had never felt smaller. Never felt more helpless. His body burned feverishly.

"I don't want any trouble, Bucky," he managed.

"Too bad. You got some. You got it the minute you interrupted the best head I've had in four fuckin' months. Do you know how long I've blue balled because you moved in? Because he's so concerned about your delicate sensibilities?"

Oh, God. The bathroom. Their bathroom—that night Peter had staggered into the apartment piss drunk.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered.

"Sir," Bucky corrected. "I'm sorry, SIR."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Good boy. I'm curious. Any chance you might want me? Want me like you do him?"

Peter's senses pricked with the hairs on his arms. "Y—you scare me."

"I know. You kept your door locked for ninety-four days."

Peter went rigid, wide eyed as he stared out at the city without seeing it.

"Peter, if you don't want in on this, then don't show up tomorrow night. I'll never bring it up again. I swear. I like having you around; a lot. You're a good kid. Steve smiles more when you're here. I just want you to be very transparent with yourself, and with me, about how you feel. What you want. I can only tolerate so much of your bedtime fantasies. If it's friendship, then things will go back to exactly the way they were. No questions asked. If it's more, things will change. That choice is yours. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

Bucky paused. When he spoke again, his voice maintained it's deep timbre, but it had transitioned from coarse suede to soft velvet.

"Take a few deeps breaths," he said. " Steve tells me my dominant side can be overwhelming, no matter how harmless I actually am."

"Harmless," Peter choked out. "I doubt that."

Bucky sighed. "I only hurt people when I'm commanded to, Pete. It's . . . residual conditioning from my time in Hydra."

Peter slowly adjusted his stare to meet Bucky's eyes, finding them warmed from forest pine to tropical palms.

"Wanna know somethin' fucked up, kid? I envy you sometimes. You do things without over-thinking. You see the present and not the past. You're genuine. And nothing you do is robotic. I wonder if . . . if Steve would be happier with someone like you." His voice trailed off.

"Bucky, no way," Peter insisted. "No way."

Bucky pursed his lips before he continued, his gaze going wintery again. "Seven thirty. If you're not here, then I'll know your answer. And Steve will never find out about this conversation."

Slowly, skeptically, Peter nodded. "OK."

"OK. Now march your ass out of the cold and back to bed. Drink some water. Get some real sleep. You're safe here. I can't promise much. But I can promise that."

Dazed, Peter peeled himself away from the railing and headed for the door.

"N—night."

Bucky didn't reply.

 **Chapter Five**

The blinding sunlight and boom of traffic horns had Peter half out of his mind as he hurried up the marble steps past the potted plants and bird baths.

Half asleep in her slipper-heels and a Japanese bathrobe, Molly opened her French doors after Peter's third round of rapid-fire knocking. Sleeping had proven impossible. He had practically galloped out of the apartment before Steve and Bucky could rouse for breakfast. Anxiety serving as a whet stone for his senses, Peter could hardly think straight as he tried to simultaneously process the worlds without and within.

"Parker? What the—?" Behind her, a few glasses and empty bottles lingered from the night before.

"I need your help," he exclaimed.

Maybe it was cliché, but after Bucky's invite, Peter was desperate. Mercifully, Molly made them cappuccino as Peter, in intentionally ambiguous detail, described his situation. When he finished, Molly stared at him from the Keurig. Peter gulped.

"I don't know what to do. Or what to wear. Or how to act." He raked his hands through his hair. The bulbs above the kitchen table buzzed. His head throbbed. "Maybe I shouldn't go."

Sparks ignited in Molly's eyes. She whirled around, yanked open the freezer, and pulled a bottle of maple flavored whiskey from its place on the ice tray.

"I have an idea!"

It took three shots to get Peter's Spidey senses down to a dull roar. By the time the world grew pleasantly foggy, Molly had hauled an old chest down from the linen closet, thrown it open, and began digging through a dozen Halloween costumes. Peter tried on six before they found the right fit. Two of the outfits had Molly rolling in hysterics. It was less funny to Peter, especially since he had never seen Rocky Horror Picture Show. They were napping before noon.

Peter awoke painfully sober. Molly shoved him into her shower with an armful of products he helped her select.

He had gapped at her closet of choices. Rows upon rows of shampoos and conditioners ranging from cedar to mocha to orchid to pear. Bar soaps, sugar and salt scrubs, and gels in citrus scents, dessert fragrances, and floral aromas. Herbal additives in jasmine, lavender, spearmint, eucalyptus, and sage. Spiced oils. Bath bombs. Lotions and body butters. Some strictly feminine. Some masculine. Others unisex.

She had more nail polish shades than he had phalanges.

"My uncles send me monthly care packages," she had explained when she caught him gawking. "I think they're under the impression that Brooklyn doesn't have bath and body shops. I keep everything. It's important to give guests choices."

Considering that Molly did not stay on Greek Row in the sorority house, but in her own four-bedroom two-story condo with a rooftop garden, Peter could only assume that the Roark family had money coming out of their ears. Peter wondered how many guests she typically hosted.

With a pang of guilt, he remembered how he had not called Aunt May this week. As he lathered up with orange ZING, Peter made a promise to himself not only to phone her tonight, but to start putting together monthly care packages for her, too. Her favorite flower was lilac, her favorite flavor banana. It gave him clue enough what she might like from the pampering aisle.

At seven twenty-eight, Peter stood on the sidewalk, staring up into the warmly lit windows of the apartment he shared with Steve and Bucky. Warm, but low. And the occasional flicker assured there were candles in use, too. In the chilly autumn air, Peter checked his outfit one more time—tested the belt, adjusted the hat, tugged on the gloves, glanced over the many buckles and zippers.

Peter clung to every ounce of courage he could find as he climbed the stairs. With a deep breath, Peter unlocked and opened the door.

Smoke curled from a stick of incense on the coffee table. He could detect the last remnants of lemon cleaning products underneath the cloud of apple, fresh bread, potato, and pork roast. A bowl of potpourri sat on the end table. A cinnamon broom hung above the door. And all this woven together by a low, melancholic rhythm—rich with cello and harp and chimes and piano—coming from the stereo.

Everything about the apartment that had been so plain before seemed to Peter mysterious and calm, shadowed and waiting for something greater than himself to explain it in such a way that it would seem a novelty. His gaudy, loud costume felt... wrong. And the natural persuasion of the atmosphere to be lulled into resigned contentment warred with his pins and needles of just blatantly not belonging there.

Steve looked up from where he had been lighting candles on the mantle. Peter stopped short at the sight of him. Barefoot and dressed in a bone-white muslin shirt which was untucked and unbuttoned just enough to tease at his chest and plain blue jeans, Steve was a casual Adonis.

"Pete," Steve greeted. He smiled and Peter watched the candle flame climb higher. "Buck said you might be coming."

"Y—Yeah. Where's your costume?"

From where Bucky had peeked around the kitchen at Peter, Bucky burst out laughing.

Steve flashed Bucky a chilly expression and huffed through his nose.

"It's not quite that kind of party," Steve explained sympathetically.

Peter felt fire licking his face. "Oh." He tried to smile and scratched at his neck. More like OH GOD HOW DO I GET OUT OF THIS.

Still laughing, Bucky rounded the counter with one hand around the neck of a Jameson bottle. He passed the dinner table, set with bowls of nuts, a bread basket, and other covered dishes Peter could only hazard guesses at. Barnes, also barefoot, wore charcoal jeans and a black shirt that had the sleeves shoved up above his elbows. He strode to where Peter stood. Bucky closed the door through which Peter seriously considered bolting and roped his mech arm around Peter's shoulders. It whirred in reply.

Harmless, Peter had to remind himself. Harmless.

"Is this fuckin' Michael Jackson?" Bucky barked out another round of laughter, shook is head, and gave Peter's chest a couple good pokes as he led him further into the apartment. "You, kid. You're great. You're fuckin' great. Glad you could make it." With a clap on the back, Bucky pushed away, chuckling, and fished his pack of smokes out of his pocket as he headed out onto the balcony. He shut the door behind him.

By the time Peter could orientate himself again, Steve stood beside him. Gently, he bumped up against his shoulder.

"Buck didn't tell you what Samhain is, did he?"

"It's that obvious, eh?" Peter muttered with a bit of resentment, casting a sidelong look to where Bucky stood smoking. But how was that an excuse? Peter had been focused on all the wrong things. It could have been avoided with a little help from Google. "Should I?" Peter's voice trailed off as he gestured to his shoes.

"Sit," Steve instructed, nodding to the sofa. Peter did.

Surprise replaced his shame when Steve knelt at Peter's feet and began untying the intricate web of Peter's boot laces. He stammered, but could not force himself to make a coherent sound. Steve started speaking again before Peter could insist on doing it himself.

"It's the Celtic holiday Halloween was modeled after. It's a day of remembering the dead—those who've gone before you—and welcoming winter's peace."

"Is that what the food and candles are for?"

"Yes." Steve removed one boot.

"I thought you were Christian."

"I am." He slid the second boot off Peter's foot.

"But you celebrate Pagan holidays?" Peter stared at the way Steve's dark lashes fanned over his cheeks and the candlelight rippled over his face as the man set his borrowed boots aside.

He smiled wistfully. "It was important to my ma. She always said it made more sense to cherish a day of remembrance than one about retail. Never had the money to get costumes anyway. We got Memorial Day for the war. But . . . Buck and I have lost a lot of people. This is their day. I don't think the Big Guy minds."

Peter occupied himself by unbuckling his gloves, fingerless or not, and shucking them off.

A lot of people. The phrase echoed through Peter's head. A lot of people? Steve and Bucky had lost everything. Every piece, person, and part of their time period. How did the man always manage to be so modest about that? To gloss over it. Then again, what could be done?

The Time Stone came to mind. What must it be like for them—to know it was possible to go back, but that doing so would irreparably change the future and potentially damn the world?

Selflessly stuck. That's what they were.

Peter wanted to curl into a ball. This could not have gone worse. "Never thought of it like that. Sorry I misunderstood."

Steve, close enough that Peter could smell the Irish Spring on his skin, shook his head and met Peter's eyes. "You didn't know. And you look really great. Honestly. I'm sorry you went through all the trouble. It's a real snazzy look for you."

He was close enough to kiss. Close enough to hear the thundering riot in Peter's rib cage.

"Thanks," he whispered sheepishly. Peter licked his lip. "What else do you do?"

Steve shrugged. "Eat. Drink. Laugh. Cry. Swap stories and share memories before midnight."

"Can't say I'm not excited about the food. Smells awesome. What happens at midnight?"

"Samhain ends. And usually we . . . commemorate a new beginning." Steve stood up.

"Commemorate?" Peter questioned.

Steve seemed to be searching for the box of matches he had left on the mantle. "As in . . . "

"Carnally," Bucky clarified as he stepped back through the door, his presence bringing something stormy into the mix. He shut the door. Loudly. As if he meant it to punctuate his point. When he winked, Peter could have died.

Tensely, Steve added, "I'm sure you've got some great invites tonight, Peter. And I'd hate for this costume to go unseen." When Peter couldn't sponge the discomfort from his face, Steve hurried on, "Buck and I have done this for five years now. We've never had a guest. Thank you for coming."

With that, Peter's spirits guttered. He knew everything Bucky had not told Steve. Steve hadn't a clue about the test behind the festivities. Steve hadn't the slightest notion of the undercurrent or overtones of his and Bucky's interlude on the balcony. He tried to buoy his mood with an appetite. Had this been a mistake? Was it just a joke to Barnes?

The next five hours passed precisely the way Steve had suggested.

After Peter had conquered his anxiety with an apple ale and loosened up, he joined Steve and Bucky at the fireplace where they talked and snacked on cashews.

Bucky showed off a few pictures from before and during the war.

Peter helped carve the pork loin when it came out of the oven. Plates piled with food, they sat around the table together.

Peter listened to their adventures in the Howling Commandos. The time Dugan had single handedly navigated a mine field. The time Dernier and Pinkerton launched into a heated political debate nearly resulting in both of them pulling their guns until Jones and Morita doused them with buckets of river water. The times Sawyer showed them all how to cook venison, skin rabbits, and live decently in the winter. Maybe they weren't so much mourning their brothers in arms as they were the men they had been while in their company.

Peter smiled at the bits they shared from before the war, too. The first time Bucky got Steve hammered drunk. The time Steve had put salt in the sugar bowl as revenge. The old diner with the waitress who wore purple lipstick. The old man with a beard down to his knees who lived in the junkyard with half a dozen stray dogs. Bucky's sister's indiscriminate love for gambling, especially when it came to cards.

Peter saw tears well in Steve's eyes when Bucky lit on the subject of Steve's mother Sarah. Her compassion and tenderness and the fly swatter she used to unapologetically whack his hand when he went for cookies before dinner or cursed at a radio program. The Italian eatery where they got free meals for helping with the dishes and dumping trash. The hidden nook in the school library where they stashed notes from dames and passed messages back and forth. Bucky's endless pranks on the poor Sisters at the cathedral.

Whenever they prompted Peter to add to the pile, Peter shook his head.

Steve shared a little bit about his father and how he smelled of pipe tobacco and sawdust; of sitting on his knee and learning to follow along while Joseph read the morning paper. Of how the factories had worn him down like gear. Steve shared his pa's passion for poetry and songs from the motherland. And the pub. Peter got the feeling that there was more sadness in that story than Steve let on.

The conversation started to get solemn when the desserts came out—pumpkin bread, apple pie, and lemon tarts—and Steve topped off the drinks.

The cemetery where Steve's parents had been buried had vanished, the graves either covered up or transported to another plot. Steve had yet to find them. The burial land allotted to immigrants back them was unkempt, unfenced, and dry. There had been no mortician and no records keeper for the funerals. Just a sympathetic priest with ties to the hospital where Steve's mother worked in the tuberculosis ward until the sickness took her too. Cremation had been abominable to the Catholic church. Had that been different, Steve would have rather seen their ashes stored in urns in a mortuary. But all things considered, Steve held firmly to the belief that the body was of no consequence—just a vessel for the spirit, both of which were free to dance together elsewhere now.

Bucky knew where his family lay, but could not bring himself to visit yet. Or to embark on finding living relatives, for that matter. Peter also noticed that Bucky left out any and all references to his time as Hydra's walking gun.

The whole graveyard subject seemed a flint to Bucky's temper, so he silently excused himself for a cigarette on the balcony. Meanwhile, Peter helped Steve with the dishes and shoveled leftovers into Tupperware.

By the time Bucky returned from his smoke break, Peter had made a conscious decision to open the floodgates of his past. Surrounded by candles and the solid presence of the two super soldiers, Peter shared with Rogers and Barnes the story of his parents and his father's part in Oscorp's climb to power as well as its downfall. Their courage and heroism and his guilt about detesting them for so long because he could not put reason to his abandonment. Peter talked about the Thai food restaurant he used to frequent with Aunt May. Told them about his friends from the decathlon team. His voice broke when he mentioned Uncle Ben, but he managed to relay the truth of his murder, and how he still blamed himself for it. He told them about Uncle Ben's wisdom. About Aunt May's endless patience and unfailing grace.

And finally, he confessed how desperately he wanted to make all of them proud—to right wrongs in his father's memory, to correctly shoulder the responsibility he had been given to honor Uncle Ben.

Slowly, giving dignity but not pity to the action, Steve reached over and curled his hand around Peter's. He squeezed. Smiled softly.

Peter noticed Bucky's eyes thaw from forest pines to tropical palms. Twice in less than twenty-four hours, the man looked at him—really looked at him. Bucky studied Peter him with the intensity of a chemist and none of the jovial condescension so ubiquitous in his greens when Peter had first walked in. Peter could only hold his gaze for a heartbeat.

None of them spoke for a few moments, listening instead to the crackle of flames and the hum of the music. Neither Steve nor Bucky offered advice or condescension, only quiet comfort and the concrete truth that they had not only listened to, but heard his pain. And they were willing to share it with him.

They spent the next hour and a half playing a couple games of cards and charades. Bucky prodded Steve relentlessly until he convinced him to sing a few bars of a blessing from the Emerald Isle. This led into a round of karaoke that put them in hysterics. Especially when Peter did his best MJ impersonation of Beat It.

"Half past midnight, Steve. Let's go." Bucky tossed his empty beer in the trash can as he left the den: destination, bedroom.

Peter blinked and checked the time. Bucky wasn't lying. Abruptly recalling what they were half an hour late for, he flushed hotly and fished his boots out from under the coffee table.

"You don't have to go, Peter," Steve assured him. "It's your house too. Help yourself to anything. Uh—maybe watch some TV? I know they're having Halloween marathons on—"

"Steven. Move your ass!"

With an apologetic smile, Steve stood up and followed Bucky. Peter watched him go.

 **Chapter Six**

A thousand things sprang to mind only to tangle up in Peter's throat. He couldn't get a full breath. Peter opened his mouth to say something, anything, to the figure departing down the hall, but was cut short by the bedroom door shutting. The abrupt ending had him reeling.

Apart from the melancholy music coming from the stereo, the apartment felt suddenly vacuous. No words. No whispers. Just sighs of fabric, the buzz of zippers, and the groan of bedsprings.

Bombarded by emotions he couldn't balance properly, Peter juggled the urge to laugh. To cry. To stay. To leave. To curl up in bed with a bottle and wallow in his misplaced hope and foolishness.

Who was he kidding? Steve and Bucky were men; seasoned warriors with years of history and love between them. What had been Peter's goal in all this? In coming tonight? What did he think would occur? Had Peter honestly sought to insert himself into a relationship that had not only stood the test of time, but brainwashing and death and betrayal and failure, too? Where could he possibly fit? He synced with their bond as much as his costume belonged at a Samhain celebration.

Had he overthought this? Underthought it? It wasn't as though Bucky had been asking him on a date. He hadn't expected anything. Not exactly. Had he?

Peter pressed his back into the couch as images came unbidden to his addled brain.

Steve kneeling on the carpet to help with Peter's boots—a gesture so simple and innocent turned unconsciously sensuous and sinful.

Smoke curling out of Bucky's lips.

The squeeze of Steve's hand.

The weight of Bucky's arm.

Steve's honest smile.

The way Bucky looked at Peter. Into Peter.

The safety in Steve's eyes.

The danger in Bucky's grin and very definition.

The breadth of their shoulders. The timbre of their voices.

It had been so easy until these last few weeks: living with Barnes and Rogers.

Peter's infatuation had to be some convoluted sort of admiration because of their status and experience. Their size and influence.

What had Molly asked him earlier—just before he left?

Did Peter want to be them? Or be with them?

And it had to be them, Peter realized. No matter how different his flavors of attraction for Steve and Bucky, Barnes and Rogers were a package deal.

Peter shut his eyes and swallowed hard. He needed to get out of here before his skull exploded. Molly's party would be going strong until the morning hours. He couldn't sit in the apartment when he knew what was going on in the next room. Couldn't turn on some horror flick while his house mates would be screaming for completely different reasons. They deserved privacy. Not to mention that Bucky would verily eviscerate Peter if he accidentally interrupted anything a second time…

Catching a cab at this hour would be hell. He would bike. Peter stuffed his feet back into his boots and took his hat and gloves off the end table. He stood up, grabbed his keys from the bookshelf, and made for the door.

"Kid!"

Peter froze when Bucky's voice boomed from the bedroom.

"Come in here."

The world went out from under his feet.

"What the hell are you doing?" Peter heard Steve hiss, his voice laced with uncharacteristic panic and a cockeyed hint of the pleasure he had to suddenly deny himself.

Peter's guts dropped and roiled.

"Now, Peter."

"James, what the—!" A gasping sound. The murmurs of a struggle.

Peter stared at the deadbolt as his sanity unraveled. It came upon him like a shadow, the creeping kind that stretched as the sun set until it shrouded the whole of the world. His feet moved without his approval, as though he had been programed to obey that voice. He paused at the bedroom door.

/I'll fix you up with somethin' good, Peter. Get you in real close with him. So long as you're ready to . . . do something good for me when I ask./

What had he agreed to last night?

/Be good./

What would he see if he stepped inside?

/I can only tolerate so many of your bedtime fantasies. /

What would happen if he said no?

/I can't promise much, but I can promise that./

Was Steve in danger? Bucky wouldn't harm him. Wouldn't hurt him. Right?

/Be good./

"Kid. I won't fucking tell you again."

Peter's blood drummed in his ears. His shadow had to be visible under the door. The light coming from the room was dim—probably a bedside lamp. Instinct insisted he run. But he reached out, grasped the bedroom door handle, and twisted. Clothes were strewn across the floor.

Bucky had Steve on his back in bed, Bucky's bionic fingers a vice around Steve's wrists. Peter followed the road of Steve's naked body—down his rolling arms and sculpted chest. A pillow lay under the small of Steve's back. His body was bent in such a way that breaking the hold would take every ounce of the strength in his core. Radiating tyrannical authority, Bucky was kneeling between Steve's legs. Bucky had the meat of Steve's thigh in his flesh hand. Guilt lanced through Peter as he stared at the curve of Steve's ass and the slope of Bucky's thick legs. What he could see of Steve's erection was as impressive as the rest of him. Peter whipped his attention to Bucky's face. The man stared him down like a mountain cat with no intention of conceding his kill. Peter couldn't put a name to what he needed to see next, but he thought he might find it in Steve's face. When he looked, all he found was a profile. Steve's wide eyes were fixed on Bucky. The dim light betrayed a blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.

It wasn't fear that shown in his expression. If nothing else, Peter assured himself that the day Steve Rogers showed fear, Peter would know it at first sight. It was surprise. Shock. Confusion. Maybe some of the red in his skin gave credit to rising anger, too. But underneath that? Acceptance. Respect. Docility. They were the surging ocean and the steadfast shore. The roaring wind and the mountain peak. The raging river and the boulder in the bend. The wild fire and the gentle rain. War and peace perfectly balanced. Chaos and harmony hand in hand.

Heartbeats passed. Steve still didn't look at Peter. Only at Bucky.

Peter knew that hold. He had seen Bucky use it on Steve before during a sparring session at the compound. Wonderful. He'd never be able to train without an instant boner again.

"Magnificent, isn't he?" Bucky declared, his smile decidedly menacing. "You'd be amazed how sensitive he is."

Steve's started to struggle. "Christ. James—"

Bucky's eyes lit on Steve as he thrust his hips forward. "Shut it. I've got a bargain to keep."

After a hiss of breath through his teeth and a ragged groan in his throat, Steve sealed his lips and stilled. Peter felt the damning of his own soul as Steve turned his head away from Peter fully. Bucky rolled his hips. Steve tensed again, but his fists uncurled as he moaned. Really moaned. It went straight to Peter's crotch.

"There we go. There's the spot."

Peter swayed. Oh god. Bucky was inside him. Fucking him. Right there. Three paces from Peter. His skin felt too tight—stretched thin over a body that contained desire of monstrous proportions. The beauty. The vulnerability. How could this be better than he had let himself imagine?

Bucky rolled his hips in a steady, slow rhythm. The strain behind the sounds Steve made confirmed Peter's suspicions about him trying to mask the effects. Peter had predicted Bucky topping strictly based off his overbearing demeanor. But this felt more savage, more ritualistic—like a conquering—than a mere choice of position. There was a sharpness to the light in Bucky's eyes. The corner of his lip. The glint on his arm.

"In Wakanda, they called me Wolf. You wanna know what Steve's ma used to call him?"

Peter, realizing Bucky was talking to him this time, watched Steve's body shiver and shudder.

"Lamb."

Peter put all his effort into swallowing. Bucky used his flesh hand to grab Steve's chin.

"But I guess it depends on the circumstance. He can be a lion, too. What will you be, I wonder?"

Peter's insides went molten. Vocalizing an answer beyond some poor attempt at English was impossible.

"If I work him hard enough, I can get him to go into subspace. You know what that is?"

Peter shook his head dumbly.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the action looked less acerbic than normal due to the plumbing job he was doing on Steve.

"I thought as much. OK. Here's what I want you to do. You ready?"

"I—"

"I want you to imagine all the great little ways we could fit you into this. Maybe you wanna frame his face with your knees and feel how sweet his lips are while I finger you from behind. Maybe you want to face me and slide into his throat. Maybe you want to lean over and let me put my hand in your pretty hair and push you down to suck on him."

"Oh, god . . . "

"Maybe you wanna mount him. Feel him move in you every time I push into him. You could kiss him. Get him panting. Have his hands all over you."

Peter's knees felt boneless. Sweat broke on his forehead. Dripped down his neck.

"Or maybe you're a greedy thing and want us both in you, our cocks grinding together while we fill you up. Stretch you wide."

Steve's expressions changed. His breathing picked up. Steve met Peter's eyes for a brief moment. Peter endured a full body shiver in the sweltering air. He panted.

"Yeah. You'll get all that shit. But not tonight. Tonight, he's mine. So you're gonna be a good boy, head back to your room, undress, lay in bed, and run through those positions with your cock in your hand until you come. Understood?"

Smally, "Yes."

Bucky glared. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now get the fuck out."

Peter was at full mast before he hit his mattress. He couldn't logic through the consequences of anything. Couldn't see beyond the immediate need to slake his lust. Priority number one. He writhed at the touch. The friction. After fully unleashing his mind, he probably lasted less than two minutes before the first blinding orgasm wrecked him. He didn't stop there. Another five minutes shoved him over the edge a second time. Ten more and his legs trembled and cramped after a third round. His hair clung to his forehead. Peter tried to catch his breath.

"How was that?" Bucky's blurry figure came into focus. He was leaning against Peter's doorjam, his charcoal jeans unbuttoned around his hips.

Panting, Peter couldn't answer. All he could do was swallow and ride the afterglow.

"That good, huh?"

No, Peter thought. Better.

"I almost bailed. Thought it was just a joke to you." His voice was hoarse. Peter would have grabbed himself some water had he any confidence in his legs.

"Naw. I'm not much of a prankster anymore. I meant what I said."

Peter groaned and came up on one elbow. He let his thoughts wander back over the last half hour and the look in Steve's eyes. Guilt pricked him. Steve hadn't granted permission for any of this. Had Peter participated in something even more unholy than he anticipated?

He blushed hotly. "Where's—?"

"He's asleep. Had to lay into him pretty hard to keep him down after your visit. Guy can take a pounding, but it puts him out like a light. You should get some kip too. We'll catch Steve up and lay ground rules tomorrow. You're welcome." Bucky righted himself, winked, and swaggered back toward his bedroom.


End file.
